


The Necromancy Games

by beyondtheskyline



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Harrow the Ninth Spoilers (Locked Tomb Trilogy)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29808363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondtheskyline/pseuds/beyondtheskyline
Summary: Every year a necromancer and a non-necromancer are chosen from each of The Emperor’s nine houses to compete in a deadly trial of skills. The Necromancy Games are broadcast across the universe from the First House to remind the planets that they are at the mercy of the Prince Undying.Harrowhark has been training for The Games her entire life, and she’ll do whatever it takes to win.Gideon Nav never thought she’d go, until fate thrust her directly into a deadly game where all bets are off.Only one can win The Games.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	1. The Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> Oh no, here I go again. This has been rolling in my head for awhile now, and I’m really excited for this story! Some world building will be altered for the sake of combining these two wild series together, but I hope you can enjoy!

Gideon Nav climbed over the crumbling fence blocking off the main part of her home from the woods. She was dressed in traditional Ninth robes—she hated them, but blending in was important. The fabric didn’t snag in the metal jutting out at all angles because she’d been doing this since she was a child. The sword on her back was perfectly concealed by the black fabric as she landed on the only section of nature her home had. 

The Ninth House was always barren. It was the most dreadful of all the other houses, if her teacher was to be trusted. But the Ninth had a purpose: fueling the rest of the planets with whatever new gunk they mined from the cold catacombs beneath, which was typically coal. And typically it was skeletons that did the mining, puppeted by the bone adepts of the Ninth House. 

Gideon was not a bone adept. She wasn’t even a necromancer. She was a “glorified leech” according to her employers. That’s what happens when your mother dies at birth and the orphanages are already overrun with unwanted kids: you get left on the street. And if you’re lucky, a rich family decides they need a child slave. At first all Gideon had been asked to do was clean the house, but after some time it became apparent she was better suited for real labor, and she was sent to work in a private mine. It’s insane to think a house that practically only makes coal (and bones, but not the point) could be cold, but the Ninth is cold as balls, and if you want coal for a warm home you have to get it yourself. Or force an indentured servant into doing it for you.

The labor didn’t hurt too bad after all these years. And her biceps looked great, so take that. 

Gideon trekked farther into the woods. If her bosses—or worse, their bitch of a daughter—caught her then her precious sword would be tossed down the nearest mine shaft. It wasn’t that swords were illegal—the exact opposite, actually—it just so happened that anything to spark joy in Gideon’s hellhole life would be gladly burned. She twisted out of the black robes so many members of the Ninth donned, and unsheathed the gleaming metal. In the grainy light of the artificial atmosphere it still looked beautiful. 

The circle of woods where Gideon always practiced was surrounded by the thickest trees in all the dismal land. Their trunks already held a myriad's worth of marks from where she’d practiced all sorts of cool tricks she’d seen in books and heard from Aiglamene. Gideon checked the watch in her pocket. She had an hour until the reaping. She raised her sword and swung at the nearest tree. 

In an hour her life could possibly be over.

* * *

Necromancy Games took place every year since the Emperor—and the fuck ton of other names he went by—had formed the houses. It had started as a way for the greatest necromancers from each house to show their skills or some shit, but it became clear relatively quickly that doing so resulted in most competitors dying. At some point the Emperor had decided to mix it up and throw some non-necromancers in as target practice or whatever. Gideon hated history, and quite frankly didn’t care about the origins of a contest where all but one died. Either way, every year the houses sent one adept and one normal person to the First House to get their asses kicked. Except for the one, usually an adept, who would win and then become super rich. There were big screens set up for the houses to watch and cheer on their competitors, but the Ninth House never bothered. They’d hadn’t had a winner in almost 25 years.

It didn’t help that most of their population was over 80. 

Gideon left the woods with a grand total of five minutes until the ceremony. She rushed through the steady crowd outside the steps of Drearburh before making her way down deeper into the crack that was the habitable zone on the Ninth. Most houses were built into the mining shafts or dug deep into the ground, but a select few sat above ground. Monstrous mansions with glinting windows and arched doorways dominated the end of the cracked road. They’d been built for winners of The Necromancy Games, and right now only two were lived in. 

The door to one came flying open right into Gideon’s face. 

“Griddle, you’re late.” Harrowhark Nonagesimus snapped. “Where have you been?” The shrew of a girl stood in the doorway with a trademark sneer, her black eyes the only things darker than her soul. Gideon easily pushed past her and into the house. 

“None of your business, and besides the reaping doesn’t start for another three minutes, Nonagesimus,” Gideon called as she entered her room (which was essentially a closet) and tucked her sword under the bed. She turned to see the bone magician standing directly behind her and jumped. “Stop doing that!”

“Griddle, we were supposed to be there early! I have to make a good impression!” 

“Stop squawking,” Gideon groaned as she swapped her robes for a leather jacket. Harrow thankfully looked away when she realised Gideon was changing. “It’s a random drawing anyway, showing up late or early won’t make your name magically be pulled.”

Harrow impatiently checked her own watch and started tapping her boot against the floor. “Nav, I’d create a brigade of skeletons to dance the jig if it meant I’d get picked for the Games. Now hurry up!” 

Gideon finished picking leaves out of her hair, thankful Harrow was too distracted to notice the telltale signs of Gideon sneaking out, and followed the wraith to the square. Harrow being born on the Ninth was probably an accident considering her attitude towards the Games. Most residents despised them, finding the practice outdated after ten thousand years. Harrow relished the Games and definitely should have been born in one of the career houses. Places like the Second and Third trained their whole lives for a chance to compete, and apparently they were cutthroat. (Again, Gideon never really paid attention to the whole thing.) It was all Harrow’s parents fault their daughter was obsessed with the Games; they’d been winners themselves and aspired for her to follow in their footsteps. They’d been the last two Ninth winners to be exact, and they were wickedly talented bone adepts. So was Harrowhark, maybe even more so.

Despite how small and weak Harrow was, Gideon didn’t doubt she’d win whichever Games she entered. 

The square was filled with walking osteoporosis and bones. The members of the Ninth—from the oldest nun to the most baby faced twelve year old—were spread across the front of Drearburh. Harrow took her place among the robed necromancers and pulled her prayer beads out. Most of the adepts were praying not to go, but Harrow had never been like other adepts. Gideon took her place with the majority of the Ninth population: the normal people. There were a few others close to her age, but most were bordering on dust. 

Up on the steps of the great church were three chairs which held the living victors of the Games: Harrow’s parents, Pelleamena and Priamhark, and the drunken heap of Augustine. Harrow’s parents had survived the aftermath of their respective Games by becoming apathetic and cold towards all living things. This was evident by how cruelly they treated their child (though Gideon knew Harrow deserved it in some small way) and how they generally regarded everyone on the Ninth. Augustine though, had turned to alcohol to drown his sorrows. He also had to watch two people every year die horribly so he had a legitimate reason for his drunkenness, Gideon believed. 

The fact he’d gone to the Games with his brother and subsequently watched him die was probably a factor as well. 

Cameras were positioned around to catch any interesting reaping activities. Nothing entertaining ever happened on the Ninth though, so all they’d get were some close ups of senility. The microphone on Drearburh’s steps sat in between two containers full of paper slips. Each slip contained a name, and by the end of the reaping, two people would be off to die. Gideon yawned—she found the charade boring; it’d be more entertaining to just stab two random people from the crowd. The Ninth House’s appointed speaker stepped up to the crackly mic. Her peach hair was done up with gel and hairspray typical of someone who lived on the First. No one was really a fan of Mercymorn, and she hated the Ninth population right back.

“Greetings skeletons,” she said in her bored and slightly squakish voice, “Happy Reaping Day!” No one said anything in response. “Whatever,” she grumbled before stepping over to the box of names on the left. “You all know why we’re here—glory of your house and yada yada. As usual, necromancers first.” 

Mercy reached inside the box and ruffled the papers a few times. After some unnecessary tension building seconds, she pulled out and unfolded a slip of paper. She cleared her throat dramatically before saying, “Harrowhark Nonagesimus!”

A breath of relief went through the adepts. Harrow bounded up the steps with barely contained enthusiasm. Gideon actually felt sort of happy for her. Maybe Nonagesimus would get painfully mauled and come back nearly mute like her dick parents. The bone freak composed herself and gave a curt nod to the winner’s seats. If the sight of their child going off to a battle to the death made an impact on Priamhark and Pelleamena, they didn’t show it. Augustine barely showed anything, other than struggling to pop the lid off his next drink. 

Mercy moved to the next box and shuffled the papers around. “And finally, a non-necromancer!” There were more papers in this box and Gideon was already pitying the poor soul who’d have to go with Nonagesimus and end up most likely being used for supplies. Mercy picked up a slip that was so thin you could almost see the name etched on the back. “Aiglamene.”

There was the smallest breath of air from the crowd. Gideon’s neck snapped to the right where her swordmaster stood with jaw set in resignation. Even Harrow’s proud smirk faltered at the sight of their teacher and mentor being called. The skeleton leg the soldier walked on creaked as she moved to the steps, her sword proudly against her hip. 

Gideon Nav never thought of herself as sentimental. She didn’t own enough stuff to  _ be _ sentimental in the first place. But she’d been training with Aiglamene since she was a child. Aiglamene had gotten a sword into her hands when everyone else thought she was only capable of being in the way. Aiglamene had said the only nice words to Gideon she’d ever heard in her life. Aiglamene was the first person to put a hand on her that wasn’t meant to be painful. Aiglamene was always the one to stick up for her when Harrow would start a fight. (And alright Gideon started her fair share of fights too but that’s not important). Gideon Nav was not sentimental in any way, but she  _ was _ decently smart, and unlike the rest of the cold-hearted Ninth, she had some human decency. 

“I volunteer as tribute!” 

The words left her mouth loud enough to rattle the bones in the deepest crypt. Harrow’s eyes found her instantly, and Gideon thought for a second she saw an emotion cross her face in the form of a small pink flush on her grey cheeks. It quickly disappeared though, and the cold mask of hatred returned. Aiglamene was looking back towards her, a mix of shock and anger on her ancient face. “What are you doing?” She hissed. 

“Taking your place,” said Gideon with more confidence than she really had. She leapt up the steps to Drearburh, but Aiglamene stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. 

“This is stupid, Nav,” the woman said lowly, out of earshot of the cameras. “You’ll die within the first few days. This is nothing but suicide.”

“Well pardon me for not wanting to sit by and watch  _ you _ die a painful and ugly death,” Gideon whispered back, uncomfortable with how much emotion there was in such a thought. “Besides,” she added with a smirk, “I’ve always wanted to get boned to death.”

“ _ Nav!” _

Before Aiglamene could force her back down the steps, Mercymorn sighed loudly and tapped her foot. “Well? Are you volunteering or not?” 

Gideon pushed past her swordmaster and took her place next to Harrow. “Yes I am.” With a defeated look, Aiglamene retreated back to the square. 

“Thank the Emperor, something interesting is happening here!!” Mercymorn continued. “What’s your name, infant?”

“Gideon N—”

“Great!” Mercy cut her off. “Ninth House, your tributes for the ten thousandth Necromancy Games!” The dismal applause sounded like bones wrapped in wet paper being rattled together. Even Harrow cringed a bit. “Alright, shake hands,” Mercy commanded. “And may the odds be ever in your favor!!”

Harrow’s nails were sharp and her skin was corpse cold as they touched. “Good luck,” Gideon said softly. 

Harrow’s eyes narrowed and her grip tightened, digging into Gideon’s bronze skin. “I intend to watch you die, Nav.”

They broke the hold, still glaring each other down. “Maybe Nonagesimus,” Gideon smirked. “But it sure as hell won’t be here.”


	2. Farewell

Harrow and Gideon were led to separate rooms within the great hall of Drearburh for their final farewells before a shuttle would arrive and take them to the First House. Gideon wished she could say goodbye to her two hander. There would undoubtedly be swords in the Games, but none would be as magnificent as hers. She paced the candlelit room a few times, whistling through her teeth to pass the time. She fully expected no one to come say their goodbyes, but then the door was roughly opened and in stepped Aiglamene. 

“It’s too late to talk me out of this,” Gideon said before the woman could speak. 

“I know that you moron,” Aiglamene said with a little less abrasiveness than normal. They were silent for a few seconds, the scent of smoke burning through Gideon’s nose. “I’ll light a candle in Drearburh after you die,” Aiglamene finally said. 

“You know damn well I’m not religious,” said Gideon, uncomfortable with the thought on many levels. “Besides, why are you so positive I’m going to die?”

“Because I’d rather see you die out there than watch you come back a shell of a human.”

“Wow,  _ great _ pep talk.”

The silence continued, Gideon itching to break it with some reassurance for the only person who’d ever shown her any kindness in this heartless House. Aiglamene saved her from making an emotional fool of herself by pulling a black object from her pocket. “You’re allowed to bring one thing into the arena with you, which I’m sure you know.” (Gideon did not know because Gideon did not pay attention when people talked.) “So here.” Her swordmaster handed the object to her, and Gideon assumed it was a weapon of some kind, but she unfolded the sides to see it was a simple pair of very ancient sunglasses. 

“What—”

“It’s extremely bright on the First,” Aiglamene said sharply. “Your opponents are not idiots. Most of them will have trained their whole lives for this. They know the Ninth’s weaknesses, one of which being we’re not used to sunlight. These will help you.”

It was most certainly the most affectionate gesture Gideon had ever received. She was tempted to hug the old bat when another knock came on the door. With a terse hand placed on her shoulder, Aiglamene gave one final half-hearted smile then left. 

The person who had knocked now entered, and Gideon was shocked that Ortus Nigend had come to say goodbye. The man was well known for his horrific poetry about the famous Ninth champion Matthias Nonius, and he would recite his works for the whole place to hear. If the Emperor ever knew, Ortus would probably be hung in seconds for daring to speak of the only person to ever defy the Games. Gideon believed deep down Ortus wanted to be reaped so he too could die like Nonius: in the hands of victory with blasphemy on his lips.

Of course all that would require Ortus to have a modicum of fighting ability and a personality above a rock, but hey, let a guy dream right?

“That was a very brave thing you did,” Ortus began, his voice the same depressed tone it always was. “I hope your soul finds peace in the River.”

“What the fuck is up with everyone expecting me to die? If I can hold my own against Nonagesimus for my entire childhood, I think the other Houses will be a piece of cake.”

Ortus took a deep and wet sounding sigh; Gideon cringed. “I have faith you will make it to the final few; you’re a good fighter. But a non-adept hasn’t won the Games since Nonius.”

“I don’t think the dude that killed himself right as he won is a good example here.”

Ortus rifled around in his thick robes, the only non-ancient person besides Harrow who religiously wore them. “The rules say you can only bring one token from home into the arena, but clothing is an exception.” He pulled out a thick black glove that went up to her forearm. Other than being bulky, it didn’t look special. “When you’re in the arena squeeze the sides and you’ll have a secret weapon,” was all Ortus gave as an explanation. “The Ninth doesn’t have many weapons to offer, but no one will expect you to come in with these.”

Gideon, being the impatient bitch that she was, slipped the leather glove on and squeezed the sides like told. Thick glass spikes popped from the knuckles and glowed in the dismal candlelight. “Knuckle knives,” she said in amazement. The brawler’s weapon gleamed back at her proudly. “I didn’t think anyone fought with these fuckers anymore.”

“That’s the point,” Ortus rumbled. “Using a weapon the others do not expect was the strategy that helped No—”

“Ortus, I swear if the next word out of your mouth is ‘Nonius’ I will shove these up your ass.”

Ortus did not finish his sentence. He simply said, “Good luck to you, Gideon Nav,” and left. 

Gideon popped the knives back inside the glove and hung it off her belt. She was decently confident in her abilities to get her through a few days in the Games, but Aiglamene and Ortus were right: she wasn’t a necromancer. The Games were designed for necromancy to prove itself supreme. Nonius winning thousands of years ago had been a fluke, and his suicide before all nine houses had been the equivalent of spitting in the Emperor’s face. 

No one else came to see her, and after a few more minutes went by Mercymorn popped her peach head inside and said it was time to leave. Gideon followed her out of Drearburh and across the square to the launchpad. Harrow joined them, silent in her robes minus the clack of her prayer beads. Her parents had probably given her some last minute reminders about the most despicable ways to slaughter people in the arena. A shuttle had just landed for them, and sitting in the dirt beside it was the drunken heap of their new mentor. 

“So you’re my new brood,” said the dazed sounding voice of Augustine. He twisted to look at them, one hand clutching a half empty bottle. “Prepared to die for the entertainment of millions?”

“I intend to win,” Harrow said bitterly. 

Augustine toasted her. “Congrats! I’ll remember that when they airlift your corpse out!” 

“Oh knock it off!!” Mercymorn squawked. “Have some faith in the poor infants!”

“You really think one could win?”

Mercy laughed, which was more of a high shriek. “Of course not!! But at least have the decency to lie to them!”

As the two adults bickered back and forth, Gideon leaned closer to Harrow. “Your parents happy you’re going into the arena?”

Harrow sniffed snidely. “I’d assume so.”

“Didn’t they come see you off?”

Harrow paused a second before saying, “No. Why, did someone actually care enough to come say goodbye to  _ you _ ?”

Gideon’s perfectly crafted retort was ruined by Mercy shouting for them to stop standing there and board the shuttle. She was struggling to push Augustine’s body inside the transport, and he wasn’t exactly doing much to help. When she finally dumped him on a seat inside he sloppily grinned and slumped back. “Mercy, you’re a saint,” he sighed, his drink tipping over in his grip and dripping to the floor. “An absolute saint. A joy as well.”

“Shut it or I’ll toss you out the airlock!”

Harrow chose a shuttle seat as tucked away in the corner as possible. The electric lighting inside made her skin appear much more alive than on the Ninth, which creeped Gideon out considering how dead and evil Nonagesimus really was. She took her own seat and the shuttle lifted off the ground and away from the Ninth House.

Gideon was struck with the realization that she was  _ leaving _ . After so many years of escape attempts, begging, pleading, and dreaming, she was finally getting out of the Ninth House! She was majorly glossing over the fact she was going to a battle royale to the death, but at least she’d get to see the First in all its splendor before being slaughtered. 

The first few hours of the shuttle were in near silence. Mercymorn was on the comms talking in high pitched whispers to whoever was on the other end. Augustine was snoring in his seat, legs splayed across the floor and head lolled to the side. Gideon was watching the blackness of space going by, wondering who the other competitors would be. She could already picture the Careers: soldiers covered in medals and rich duelists with precision moves. A couple times she’d watched the initial bloodbath at the cornucopia, and the Careers always dominated. Cohort heroes grinning proudly over dead bodies, Third tributes dressed in jewels and eating flesh to boost their power, Fourth House children glowing with wild flames as they blew the corpses up; it was wild. 

Gideon snapped upright, aware she’d fallen asleep. The scene outside was unchanging, but in the distance she could see a planet twinkling like a star. It was huge with swirls of browns and whites across the surface. Was  _ that _ the First?! Gideon pressed her face to the cold glass, straining to make out details on the celestial object. 

“That’s the Fifth, Griddle,” Harrow’s voice snapped from the corner. “They are physically uninteresting; simply a large ball of gas.” The demon queen was sitting before the shuttle’s large screen, black eyes staring intently at whatever was playing. The screen gave off a blue tinted glow that made her corpse skin shimmer, which would be a bit beautiful if it was anyone else. 

“Whatcha doing Nonagesimus?” Gideon moved from her seat to one near the screen. Harrow was watching what looked like a large rally of some kind, filled with the reds and whites of Cohort officers. 

Harrow’s eyes narrowed at the action and she squirmed away from Gideon’s presence. “I’m learning my competition.”

“Oh, are those the other reapings?”

Harrow nodded and tapped the screen to continue. The Second Reaping resumed with a round of deliberate applause for the necromancer chosen. The camera zoomed in on the tribute’s face and she stared back like she knew her competitors were watching on the other end. She was strong and stern looking with a tight braid hairstyle and a decorated Cohort uniform. “Captain Judith Deuteros,” Harrow said coldly. “Talented Cohort adept known for fierce dedication to the expansion project. She took a leave from the mission to participate in The Games.”

On screen the announcer for the Second pulled another name and boomed out, “Lieutenant Marta Dyas.”

The non-necromancer had a rapier hung at her hip and was almost identical to the adept with her starched uniform and braided hair. She was taller and broader, and obviously had been training since birth to do just this. They regarded each other with a brief nod of acknowledgement before roughly shaking hands and walking in step off stage. The whole thing read as a hastily scripted play being performed by people who’d never acted once in their life. 

Harrow, being the nerd she was, scribbled some sloppy notes in an old notebook. Gideon strained her neck to read the words:

_ Second: Trained Killers. _

Well that wasn’t fucking morbid at all. 

The next Reaping was for the Third House, and Gideon was blinded by the sudden glow of the image on screen. Every inch of the grand square on the Third was gold and purple and covered in precious stones. Even the people were dressed up like they belonged in a jewelry store. “It looks like the First,” Gideon mentioned, recalling the uppity hairstyles and over-the-top outfits of the First House population. 

“The First will be even more atrocious than this,” Harrow growled. 

The announcer said, “Ianthe Tridentarius,” and up to the podium arrived a thin and pallid girl with hair so straight and blonde it blended with the light. If Gideon didn’t know anything about necros, she’d assume the girl was a corpse. Alas, living with Harrow for seventeen years meant she  _ did _ know a thing or two about necros, and one as corpse-like as that was sure to be decently powerful. Another slip of paper was drawn and the mouthful name “Coronabeth Tridentarius” was called. 

“Sisters going to the same Games?” Gideon wondered aloud, reminded of Augustine’s drunken stories about his brother. The man in question was still drooling and snoring in a heap by the shuttle door. Harrow was already scribbling on her notebook again.

_ Third: Time bombs _

Gideon tuned out most of the other reapings. It was the same deal: children too young to die mixed with people who had lived most of their lives with the resignation they’d die in an arena. She didn’t even tune back in when the Ninth’s Reaping was played. Harrow kept taking notes on their competitors, even as the blue ball of the First approached in the distance. Gideon squinted her eyes against the now up close and personal shine of Dominicus, becoming more grateful by the second for Aiglamene’s gift. 

Harrow pulled a traditional Ninth House lace veil out of her robe and draped it over herself. Mercy came out of the cockpit and kicked Augustine’s shin roughly. “Get up!!” She squawked as normal. “We’re almost to the First! All those cameras and you look like a slob!”

“So it’s a normal show,” Augustine groaned, rubbing his head. Mercy rolled her eyes and flattened some strands of peach hair back to her scalp. 

“Will we be seen by the other tributes as well?” Harrow questioned. 

“Perhaps, but only briefly,” Mercymorn said. “First it’s to our chambers to meet your stylist and then we get ready for the Tribute Parade.”

Both Gideon and Harrow hissed and cringed. The Tribute Parade was the first time the First would see the Tributes. Not even the reapings were played for them until afterwards. Each House was dressed up to represent their role in the Empire. The Ninth was always a sad combination of bones and black, even though that was only a small part of what made up the Ninth. The real motives of their House revolved around who they worshipped. 

Why the Emperor had allowed for their creation when everyone else saw them as a scourge against his name was a mystery for the ages. Even Harrow speculated about his true intentions behind keeping the Ninth alive. They certainly didn’t provide enough coal and bones to be considered important, and you’d think a dude obsessed with everyone worshipping him would be uncomfortable with a House that equally worshipped his cavalier. The whole population of their dismal planet went buck wild whenever Alecto was seen on camera. Gideon didn’t see the big deal. She was a normal looking chick who carried a sword and happened to be over ten thousand years old. Her eyes were cool though; they were gold just like Gideon’s. 

But the Emperor’s thin patience with them would snap if they donned anything resembling his cavalier in the parade, so dusty robes, bones, and coal dust was all they got. At least Harrow would look normal. 

The shuttle entered the First’s airspace alongside a few other white transports. Each one held a different House symbol. Gideon recognized the sign of the Eighth in front of them, but she couldn’t stretch her neck to see the others. Harrow smacked her side and hissed, “Nav, calm down.”

The shuttles began descending to the ground in a beautiful curve. The glow of Dominicus burned through the windows and Gideon was forced to pull out her glasses to avoid having her retinas scorched. Harrow’s jaw dropped at the action. “What—what in the Emperor’s name are  _ those _ !?” 

Gideon smirked. “Like em? They were my farewell gift from Aiglamene.”

“You look like an ass, Griddle!”

Augustine stumbled forward to lean one forearm on the window. He stared at her for a second before grinning and limply slapping her shoulder. “You look fine, kid. You’re gonna die anyway.”

“Thanks.”

Mercymorn rubbed her head forcefully. “I’m never going to get a better House,” she whined. 

With a rickety sigh the shuttle touched ground and all the occupants were violently lurched. Harrow knocked into Gideon’s chest, Augustine easily fell over, and Mercymorn grabbed the wall but quickly readjusted herself. When the last of the machinery had stopped creaking, the door beeped and popped open like it couldn’t wait to get them out. 

Mercy went first, stepping over Augustine who was grinning about something. “Infants, welcome to Canaan. You’ll stay here before meeting your demise in the arena.”

“ _ I _ am going to be the victor this year,” Harrow said dramatically as she stepped out and onto the loading dock. 

“Sure you are,” Mercy sighed. 

Gideon stepped out and let an audible ‘wow’ leave her mouth at the palace before them. Canaan was a perfectly preserved corpse of what was once probably a mansion fit for God. The towers stretched up to greet Dominicus, but they were shaky and violated about a hundred building codes. The terraces overflowed with plant life, but said life was desperately clinging to that title. The doors were decorated in the skull of the First, but the lines were dusty and no longer glowed like they probably once had. Even the dock looked like it had seen better days. “You’d think for a place supposed to be our last home they’d make it look a bit more this century,” Gideon commented. 

“Nothing is ever enough for the shadow cultists,” said a deep and depressing voice from beside them. Gideon visibly jumped at the small and whiny looking boy who had spoken. His long white hair and robes gave away his Eighth House blood quicker than the hatred in his dead eyes and the pretentious tone of his voice. He stood a few feet from them and stepped back a bit when they turned, as if they were toddlers afraid of the cooties. 

“Silas Octakisseron,” Harrow said politely as if addressing a longtime colleague. “It’s good to see the Eighth hasn’t changed since the last time the system heard from it.”

The boy took in a deep and shallow breath, looking halfway between tired and insulted. “It’s a pity the Ninth hasn’t choked on its own atmosphere,” he said by way of greeting. “I was so hoping this would be the year the Emperor would rule over only eight houses.”

“Octakisseron, go back to your guide,” Mercymorn snapped. “Any grief you have with the Ninth can be taken up in the arena.” Surprisingly, the boy listened, and skulked off to his white-clad companion in the distance. 

“The Eighth is known for volunteering for the Games,” Harrow said lowly. “They aren’t Careers, and they usually die right away in the arena, but they consider death in that way to equal martyrdom.”

“So they essentially all have one big hard-on for the Emperor.” Gideon thought it was a decently intelligent addition to Harrow’s nerd babble. She did not agree. Augustine thought it was hilarious so that meant a bit. 

Big robotic cameras which cost more than the entire Ninth treasury swiveled above the grand doors, taking in the action of the arriving tributes. Gideon looked up and waved because why not?

Other Houses were disembarking as the Ninth made their way inside Canaan. The entrance hall had probably been gorgeous in its prime, but the paint was peeling and the ceiling held holes you could drop a body through. The sun was just as strong inside so Gideon kept her glasses on. Mercymorn led them through the dusty halls to their rooms, passed occasionally by a skeleton servant. Eventually they came upon a grand door with the symbol of the Ninth on it. Mercy knocked once and a voice called out, “Come in!” 

Within the chambers stood a beautiful corpse. The woman could have been mistaken for a fancy servant with her pale skin and icy veins. She blinked at them with bold lashes and cold eyes, a smile gracing her taut lips. “Hello, I’m Cytherea. I’ll be your stylist.” 

“You don’t look like you’re from the First,” Gideon’s mouth said before her brain could tell her no. It was a true observation though. Cytherea wore no extensive makeup and had no copious amounts of gel in her hair. She looked quite plain for someone who lived in the most over-the-top and dramatic house. 

Their stylist did not take offense to the comment. “When you’re in a constant state of near death, you tend to not care much for dressing up like a circus clown.” Mercy scoffed at the jab and fluffed at her own peach locks for a second. “Now, I have a brilliant plan to gather everyone’s attention to the Ninth at the Tribute Parade!”

“I’m not wearing bones,” Gideon said, pointing to the spikes in Harrow’s ears for emphasis. Harrow smacked the hand away. 

Cytherea laughed—which was pretty—then coughed—which was disgusting. “Everyone knows the Ninth will come out in bones and black. I have planned something that no one has seen for a thousand years!” She pulled an ornate cane from behind her and wobbled—with incredible speed— over to a table filled with sketches. Most were various types of formal outfits which were nice but not innovative. Cytherea pulled out a thin piece of flimsy and held it towards them as if it were a piece of food. Harrow snapped it from her hands before Gideon could get a good look. 

“This—this is various styles of Ninth House”—Harrow paused and looked around as if someone would report her for saying the following word—“ _ face paint _ . No one has been allowed to wear paint since Matthias Nonius. The Emperor forbade it!”

Cytherea took the flimsy back and smiled. There was some blood on her otherwise perfect teeth, which was oddly a bit hot. “The Emperor can hardly remember the names of his own Lyctors. He won’t give too much care as to what the Ninth wears; he never does! Only Alecto takes an interest, and this year she’ll finally have something interesting to see.”

Mercymorn shook her head. “Cyth, this isn’t safe. The Necrolord Prime set the paint ban specifically so the system would forget about Matthias.”

“And it’s been a thousand years!” Cytherea argued. “Besides, they’re going to die in the arena anyway, at least they should go out with a statement!” 

Harrow’s eyes narrowed. “That’s dangerously close to how Nonius thought. And a prime example of why this paint has been banned.”

Augustine, who had been suspiciously silent. Popped the cap off a new bottle of alcohol. “I love it! Adds some spice.”

Cytherea clapped her hands. “Yay! Two against one; Mercy you lose!”

“Don’t we get a vote?” Gideon asked. 

Cytherea laughed and patted her cheek. Her hand was amazingly warm. “Of course not sweetie! You’re going to die in three days!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never fear, Naberius will appear. I have a very important role for him ;)


End file.
